The feeling is indescribable.
Fresh blood drips from his hanging blade, congesting into purple beads amongst the green moss spread across the forest floor.
He takes in deep breaths; puffs of vapor trail out from between his clenched white teeth. His boots planted deep into the grass and soil, knees bent and back hunched. Sweat falls from his quivering chin, his sky blue eyes wide and fierce.
A sword held tightly in his left hand, and in his right…
His large shield, shaped like an axe head, bearing the guild's ravaged crest; he has it raised up like a weapon, ejection nozzle pressed into the humanoid monster's head.
KA-CHAK.
Gears spin, thick carbalite metal screams. The bladed shield discharges with a punch of recoil, levered ribs flexing and compressing in a surge of pure kinetic energy.
The humanoid's head erupts, ejecting violet spray out the other end amongst arcs of pale scattered lightning. The lifeless body falls to the damp ground; a discharged vial skips and tumbles away, emitting a light ringing noise, leaking wisps of black smoke.
This man…
This hunter, he raises steadily to his feet, fixing his posture, his eyes flickering left and right, searching. The shadows, the bushes and brambles, even the treetops.
Anything. Everything.
The silence in the forest is all-encompassing, the shouts and screams that once saturated the air have fallen still. Satisfied, the hunter flicks about his sword, whisking the lingering drops of blood away, painting the trunks of the trees about him with a diagonal violet stroke.
At his boots, the blood collects. At his feet, the corpses of four humanoid monsters lie unmoving. Never to speak again, never to attack again.
Never to live again.
Myriel rests her pale white paw against her furry chest, fighting to calm her rampaging heart. The hairs along her back refuse to not stand on end; she can't stop her tail from lashing back and forth endlessly.
Dire Miralis's catatonic roar echoes from somewhere far away, the belching pillar of smoke from their destroyed airship rises steadily into the evening sky. The hunter snarls at that Elder Dragon's vile tune, and stashes his Charge Blade onto his back; gears spin and lock into place, and the sword latches into the shield with a satisfying click.
The hunter turns and finds Myriel locked onto his gaze.
His background of the greens and browns of the forest, the whites and grays of the mountains and sky. The black pillar of smoke silhouettes his form; his short blond hair and blue eyes are encapsulating. He opens his mouth once more, and a battle-tested voice sounds out into the chilling air.
"Hey." He says, his fierce gaze softening by a measure. "Are you alright?"
Myriel has been saved.
Twenty minutes ago.
Myriel lounges around the Hunter Guild's airship deck, her furry little arms crossed over one another, cushioning her felyne chin against the carved wooden railing.
The wind feels nice, though it's plagued by the smell of saltwater and sulfur. The view's nice, though there's nothing to see but a partially clouded sky and endless expanse of the West Dragon Ocean.
It has been this same view for days now, and it may just continue to be this same view for days more.
Such a boring journey
The nature of this expedition Myriel's on is a blurry one, to which a small group of units were dispatched to clear. Supposedly, the Sixth Expedition to the New World has been lost somewhere out in these waters, and it's the job of these few hunters wandering about the airship's deck to investigate this unexplained disappearance.
As to why Myriel is here as well…
Well… She's a cook.
She was brought into human civilization at a young age, back when her mother decided to leave their village in hopes of finding a better future for Myriel. The situation as to why was complicated, so much so that Myriel's mother took the secret to the grave with her.
But because of it, human civilization is all Myriel has ever known. She's learned their difficult language, trained under well-known felyne chefs, and has even been cleared for expeditions like these. She should consider herself lucky.
Yet, despite her upbringing, she's always wanted to experience adventure.
It's been her dream to be a Palico, and even when her dream was killed, it didn't stop her desire. She still wants to be a comrade to a hunter, to follow a human warrior out into battle, battle against the strongest monsters in the world.
It would mean everything to her; she practically craves it.
So, imagine her disappointment, staring out onto the endless horizon, where no sight of adventure is to be found. And even if there was, she couldn't be apart of it. She'd have to go hide in the kitchen under the deck, wait out the storm while the hunters and the felynes more fortunate than her would go out and deal with that adventure.
Truly a conundrum.
She sighs, her pointed white ears flicking on reflex from subtle changes in the wind.
"Some expedition this is turning out to be." Her high-pitched voice mumbles, partially drowning out in the breeze. "Day after day, and not a single peep of land in sight."
The chatting hunters on the deck don't pay her any attention, bustling palicoes and felyne workers decide to ignore her. In these few days, she's been singled out as a problem cat. She slacks on her duties as a chef, and has been caught more than once messing around with palico weapons in the brig. She snubs her superiors, loiters in the litter box, and just overall doesn't give any but a select few the time of day.
Honestly, she should just return to her mother's village, and leave all this guild nonsense behind. It might just save her nine lives from being wasted away by crippling boredom.
"Meow? (And? What do we have here?)"
A felyne voice sounds out behind Myriel; she can tell who it by scent alone. She sighs once more, switching back to her native language.
"Mreow me-ow? (What do you want Mitos?)"
Myriel puts her head on a swivel, taking in the sight of the speckled brown and black palico that joins her on the railing, his slit green eyes filling with playful mischief as they lock onto her crimson red eyes.
"Meo-ow-ow mer? (Gonna yell at me to get back to work?)" She asks.
Mitos grins, partially baring his small fangs.
"Meow meow? Mre-ow-ow. (Must you be so cruel? I didn't take you as a stingy one.)" Myriel rolls her slit eyes, but Mitos continues, leaning on the railing and taking in the view as well. "Me-o-w mer-meow. (I just wanted to enjoy the view as well. That's all.)"
Mitos, the palico of the hunter that leads this expedition. He's sly, quick to be sarcastic, and is wholeheartedly full of himself.
Yet, he has the skill to back it up.
She gives him a sideways glance as the two of them fall silent, watching the passing clouds with complacent expressions.
This palico and his hunter slayed a Shagaru Magala, which is no small feat by any means. Without a doubt, Myriel is envious of this felyne; he's gone where she's only dreamed of going before.
He's exceptional at almost everything; the only aspect Myriel has over him is her knowledge of the human language. He's living the life she's always wanted, and his hunter is on track to become a Guild Knight.
Yet here he is, chatting with a felyne cook.
She can't understand him.
"Meow. Meo-ow? (Mitos. Can I ask you a question?)" She asks.
Mitos raises a furry eyebrow, shrugging his slender shoulders.
"Meow. (Go for it.)"
Myriel glances back at the hunters stomping about behind them on the deck, laughing and bickering amongst one another atop simple chairs and around small round tables. Gorging on food, downing the contents of mugs and soups at astonishing rates. For powerful warriors that are capable of slaying even more powerful beasts, they are all rather light-hearted all the time.
To be honest, it puts Myriel off.
They risk their lives day after day on orders from the Guild, yet they seem quite flippant about it. The palicoes too, they indulge in the festivities just as much as the humans and wyverians do.
"Me-e-ow? meo-owow-ow? (Why did you become a palico Mitos? What about this life looked so appealing to you?)" She gestures to everyone else with a single white paw.
"Mer-ow, meow. Meow me-ow-ow. (You're a warrior almost comparable to a hunter, yet you're here, waiting around on a floating ship in the sky. We have no clue where the sixth fleet disappeared to, and this whole expedition could all be for naught.)"
She searches for the words, Mitos watches her with his usual playful eyes.
"Meow. Me-ow-ow-ow-ow? (It's weird. Aren't you expecting, oh, I don't know, something more?)"
Mitos sighs, placing his paws on his waist.
"Meow mer-r. Mer-ow me-… (It's part of the job missy. You can't expect every waking moment to just be-…)"
Mitos falls silent, staring at something behind Myriel, out toward the starboard bow side of the airship.
Dead ahead.
Before Myriel can turn her head to follow his gaze, Mitos calls out with a surprised tone, becoming animate again.
"Meow! Me-ow!" (Land! Land-ho!)"
Myriel spins about on her hind paws, cocking a furry eyebrow.
Land? There shouldn't be any land out here for miles around.
Other palicoes and felynes on the ship pick up on Mitos's words. They almost immediately crowd Myriel's spot on the railing in a large group, excitedly speaking felyne to one another in a meowing cacophony.
One of the hunters that understands their language peeks out the side of the airship with them, her eyebrows knitting together.
"What the… He's right." She turns her head back toward the wheel of the ship, underneath the large balloon that keeps the craft aloft. "We've got an island people! Starboard bow. It looks like a big one!"
Other hunters join in the group; the airship itself starts to tilt awkwardly from the sudden change in weight distribution. Suspicious, and maybe just a little intrigued, Myriel joins the other palicoes, muscling her way to the front of the furry crowd.
She peers out into the endless waters…
There's an island.
A massive one.
It could even be mistaken for the New World at this distance, easily larger than most islands known in the world. And yet, nothing has ever been recorded out this far in the West Dragon Ocean, there should be nothing but open water until they reach the New World.
Yet, this isn't the New World.
It's something else entirely.
A large Island, dominated by large swathes of forests and jagged mountain peaks. Decorated with rocky shores and exotic looking sea stacks, tumultuous waves and swirling storming clouds. Smaller regions of congested ecosystems and dried patches, yet it's all dwarfed by one massive volcano that sits in the center of the island, actively vomiting lava out of its shattered peak, leaving trails of molten stone to pour in heaps down its steep sides.
It's quite the sight, but it's not what catches Myriel's eye.
She points a paw, exclaiming in human.
"Look! Over there!"
Felynes and hunters alike follow to where she points, and more voices begin to speak up.
On the eastern side of the island, where the shores are particularly unforgiving, rests the corpse of a once great craft. Carved timber stretching out like ribs, mast split in half and sails partially burned away. The remains of a crashed ship rests overturned on the beach, and its design is unmistakable. A Guild Ship, destroyed nearly beyond recognition.
They've found their missing Sixth Fleet.
The lady hunter that understood Mitos grimaces, calling out with a commanding tone. If Myriel can remember correctly, her name was Venna.
"Possible missing fleet discovered! Take us down!"
Immediately, the light-hearted nature of the hunters fall away, as everyone changes tune. If Venna's words are anything to go off of, the airship is planning to touch down. Everyone runs to their stations.
Myriel can only watch, keeping her eyes glued on that crashed ship.
A cook has no role to play here.
…
She can't help but have a bad feeling about this.
Moments later, the door to the lower decks swings open, and Belmott stalks across the deck, Mitos in tow.
The legendary hunter makes Myriel wince just from his approaching presence, as he joins at the railing with a dark expression. The hunters and palicoes make way just on reflex. They make space for Belmott, the hunter who slayed a Shagaru Magala.
His armor made of the scales of his fallen prize, his L'Origine Greatsword strapped tightly across his back. He's a walking presence, in every sense of the word. Myriel has no clue how Mitos can withstand the aura he practically bleeds each and every day.
Her whiskers would never stop shivering if she were in his shoes.
Belmott crosses his arms, flicking his dull gray eyes at Venna, who stands at attention by the bow.
"There shouldn't be an island here." Belmott rumbles, growling to himself. "How can this be?"
"We aren't certain sir." Venna replies in a uniform manner, the large beetle scuttling around her arm matching plainly with the insect glaive tied to her shoulder. "It may be a newly formed landmass."
Belmott gives the island a suspicious glare.
"An island with established plant life is not newly formed, Venna. That cannot be the explanation."
The two begin to bicker, but Myriel tunes them out, quite nearly rolling her eyes when she realizes Mitos is standing next to her again. But she stops herself. The look on Mitos's face is nothing to joke about.
He watches the island with a growing sense of unease, growling deeply in his throat.
"Mrrreowwww. (You can sense it too, right? Something's wrong here.)"
Myriel reluctantly nods, flexing her paws open and closed.
"Meo-ow (Yes. Something is amiss.)"
Myriel can't explain it. She cannot put her paw on it.
Is it the atmosphere of the island? The sound and smell coming this way, sourcing from that volcano which beings to rumble?
…
Or is it the colossal forearm that breaches the lava of the volcano, rising like a pillar, slamming down and gripping onto the shattered edge with massive talons, sending swathes of rockslides tumbling down the other side?
Myriel's eyes widen.
Is it the other arm that appears as well? Moving almost in slow motion simply because of the size of it?
Everyone falls silent, the leather about Belmott's gloves groan.
Is it the two spires of magma and stone that rise next? The two malformed wings that bleed steam large enough to create clouds?
Myriel's heart seems to stop.
Or is it the dark draconic head, the size of fleets, and the façade of the Black Dragon, that surfaces, dripping molten stone and leaking volcanic vapors?
Is this uneasy feeling the colossal Elder Dragon that rises from the volcano? That sets all the danger signals off in Myriel's head?
It is.
And its massive head turns, aiming its snout toward the airship.
It's looking right at them.
Dread overtakes Myriel.
The beast's malformed wings lower, like two colossal cannons, taking aim, dripping magma and shuddering violently.
They're all about to die.
Belmott and Mitos bellow at precisely the same time.
"GET DOWN!"
"MEOW!"